


Eyes Without a Face

by Sandoz (Sandoz_Iscariot17)



Category: Ex Machina (Comics)
Genre: Fantasizing, Flashbacks, M/M, Masturbation, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 10:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19171753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandoz_Iscariot17/pseuds/Sandoz
Summary: On Halloween night, Mitchell spends the night on Bradbury's couch, and Bradbury is tortured. [Written in 2011]





	Eyes Without a Face

Bradbury was sprawled on his futon, licking the melted chocolate of a Snickers bar off his fingers when the doorbell rang. 

Halloween, as far as he was concerned, could go fuck itself. The holiday had never held any childhood magic for him, and he’d worked enough beats on Halloween to be sick of it: the drunk trust fund kids costumed like Jay and Silent Bob, the firecrackers in the mailboxes, the parents tugging around their snot-nosed brats. (His heart thudded a bit when he thought of his girls, too little to trick-or-treat yet. He wondered about the future, the years when he’d be taking them door-to-door and warning them about razor blades in apples, but if Roxanne had her way that’d never fucking happen.) Anyway, there was something about putting on a mask that instantly turned a person into a jackass, so he was glad to be in for the night.

But then he answered the door, saw the ghoul in a trenchcoat with a face wrapped in bandages, and all thoughts of trick-or-treating were blown out of his head.

“Hey, Bradbury,” said the quiet, familiar voice, unaffected by Bradbury’s startled gasp.

“Mr. Hundred?” And he was already stepping aside to let the man in, had already recognized the green eyes looking at him from behind the death mask.

“For the thousandth time, I _beg_ you to call me Mitchell.”

Bradbury locked the door behind them. ( _Mr. Hundred. Mitchell. Mitch. Mitch Mitchell Hundred._ )

It was a shock seeing Mitchell out of the hospital, and suddenly Bradbury’s tiny shithole apartment felt all the smaller having the other man in it. They lingered in the living room, Bradbury rambling out a one-sided conversation (TV. Halloween. Giuliani in a damn dress.) until Mitchell collapsed in a chair and said, “I kind of got robbed tonight.”

Bradbury felt hit in the solar plexus (“What? Why didn’t you say something? Are you okay?” _Mr. Hundred Mitchell Mitch_ ), concern and anger surging inside him. Mitchell rebuffed his offer to take him to the station, shaking his head and murmuring things Bradbury didn’t understand: his grandmother, a pocket watch, a voice in the city that only he could hear. 

His mouth set in a firm line, Bradbury watched him carefully.

“I know how this sounds,” Mitchell began, standing up, but Bradbury stopped him before he could say, _“I’m not crazy.”_

He should have taken Mitchell back to the hospital, his protests be damned. Or the police station. But Bradbury did neither of those things. Going back out on the streets was the last thing Mitchell needed. Without thinking Bradbury touched him, placing strong, supportive hands on his back and guiding him to the futon. “You need some rest.” ( _Stay here._ ) He switched off the light, filling the room with darkness.

“Everything will look better in the morning.”

***

Bradbury shut his bedroom door and breathed a sigh of relief at the wall between them. He wasn’t tired, not yet, but with Mitchell crashing on the futon there wasn’t anything to do but try to sleep. He pulled his t-shirt over his head with a grunt and let his trousers fall to the floor. A chill licked its way up his bare stomach. It was a cold October, soon to be a colder November. He pulled on his pajamas, the pair printed with stars and cowboy hats (an anniversary present, one of the relics of his broken marriage that he hung onto like a moony teenager) and dropped his body on his bed like a sack of hammers.

Shifting and turning, face pressed against his pillow, Bradbury realized he was hard.

Fuck.

He rolled his hips, rutting into the mattress to relieve the pressure. A sweet surge of pleasure went up his spine and he bit back a groan. Bradbury’s large, square hand slid between his body and the bed, pressing and stroking through the material. His prick throbbed against his leg. No. No, Christ, he couldn’t do this. 

He tried to will it away, closed his eyes and focused on the sounds drifting through his fourth-floor window: a drunken laugh, a distant siren. Awake and frustrated, he sat up, stared at the dark shape of his bedroom door.

Was Mitchell asleep?

The thoughts came slowly, heating his belly like a burning coal. Stepping into the living room, touching Mitchell’s shoulder, waking him up. Listening to the rustle of his clothing as he sat up and said Bradbury’s name. He could brush it off as a stupid prank if he got scared. 

Or no. Maybe he didn’t need to wake Mitchell up; maybe he was awake on the futon, waiting for Bradbury to open the door. Knowing already what Bradbury wanted and just waiting for him to take it. Hell, that could be the reason why he came here so late at night, couldn’t it?

But even in his own fantasies he only heard Mitchell’s voice. He could see what he wanted, but he couldn’t imagine asking for it. Offering Mitchell a handjob, his mouth, whatever he wanted. 

Bradbury pressed his hands against his face, dug the heels of his palms against his eyelids. Shame stung him like a slap from his ex-wife.

_Rick, you’re a real shitty piece of work, you know that?_

How the fuck could he think of making a pass at his friend? He thought of Mitchell fresh out of St. Vincent’s, probably still high as a fucking kite on painkillers, mugged by a bunch of freaks in masks and probably scared shitless and he _needed_ Bradbury, he did, and here he was thinking about his dick like the shitheel he was. Projecting his own issues onto Mitchell, the unwanted urges that he wanted to bury. But there was never a big enough shovel. 

***

He thought about the hospital.

Bradbury held Mitchell’s hand every day, but there was nothing queer about it. It was just the thing to do, with the poor guy lying there missing half his face and cracking jokes about green Jello. His hands had been warm and soft, but Bradbury tried not to think about it. 

“Do you do this for all the guys who get caught in mysterious, weird-as-fuck explosions?” Mitchell had asked, his voice raw but wry, the third day Bradbury visited. 

“Only you, big man.”

Mitchell had seemed surprised, touched even—and Bradbury eventually realized he was the only one who ever visited Mitchell. Aside from a half-assed “Get Well Soon!” card from his office, Mitchell’s room was austere, empty. No flowers, no pink teddy bears from the gift shop, no wife, no kids, no girlfriend, no one.

Once, half-asleep and full of morphine, Mitchell had murmured, “Is my mom here?” and Bradbury had said, “No, I’m sorry,” through a tightened throat.

He felt protective of Mitchell, ashamed that he’d taken the brunt of the blast in Bradbury’s place. Guilt gnawed on him every time Mitchell’s eyes fixed on his face, when he told him about his reconstructive surgeries and the likely scarring. But those eyes had never looked at him accusingly and he’d never hurled a word of blame, even when he let Bradbury witness his frustration.

“I’m going to be fucking disfigured,” he’d said, hands clawing at the thin blankets.

“It’ll be okay, man,” Bradbury said with a squeeze on the arm. “Chicks love scars.”

Mitchell’s laugh was sudden, unexpected, and hit Bradbury with the force of a jet engine. 

Bradbury couldn’t pinpoint when visiting Mitchell became the highlight of his goddamn day, but he was stunned at how fast it happened. He’d be damned if anyone else could convince him to watch the _Superman_ movie marathon on AMC, let alone make that hokey, queer “man in blue tights” crap seem interesting. Bradbury couldn’t imagine why anyone over twelve would enjoy this, but Mitchell was so fucking rapt, it was infectious.

“Christopher Reeve’s my favorite actor, actually. He’s incredibly underrated. I even forgive him for inflicting _The Quest for Peace_ on the world.”

A week later, Bradbury caught _Death Trap_ on TV. Chugging his beer, he thought, _Oh right, that guy. The one Hundred likes._ And he kept watching until Michael Caine pulled the young, muscled Christopher Reeve in for a kiss, and then he pounded his remote, his face blank with shock.

***

Bradbury woke up at six, gray November dawn filtering through the window. He dressed quickly, rehearsing how to ask Mitchell how he took his coffee, but when he walked into his living room the futon was empty. The shabby old quilt hadn’t even been unfolded. Mitchell had left sometime in the night.

It served Bradbury right. 

***

Mitchell called later that night, when Bradbury was scraping the remnants of Chicken Parmesan down the garbage disposal. Tap water splashing on his t-shirt, he grunted, “Damn,” as he fumbled with his slippery cell phone.

“Hi Bradbury, it’s me, Mitchell. I’m sorry I--”

“Where are you?” Bradbury demanded. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m at home, I’m fine. Really, don’t worry.” His voice dropped. “I’m sorry I bolted last night. I couldn’t sleep. I had to…I had to take care of some things.”

Bradbury ran his hand through his hair, drawing blunt nails across his scalp. He exhaled. “Are you sure? You…you said some weird shit last night, man.”

“I know. But it’s all right. I think my head’s clear for the first time since the accident.”

Collapsing onto his futon, Bradbury stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Mitchell did sound different; there was a quiet confidence in his voice that didn’t belong to the lost, bandaged man who had rung his doorbell last night. 

A pause. Bradbury heard Mitchell swallow before he continued, “Listen, I’m always awkward as hell on the phone. We should get together and talk. I’ll drop by tomorrow?”

Bradbury raised an eyebrow. “And you won’t bail on me again?”

“I won’t bail on you.”

He closed his eyes. “Sure. Come by whenever.”

“Great.” Relief flooded Mitchell’s voice; somehow Bradbury knew he was smiling. “Thanks for everything these last few weeks. Really. You’re a good friend.”

Bradbury bit back a laugh. Christ, if Mitchell only knew. “Later, Mitchell.”

Click.

Rolling on his side, Bradbury pressed his face against the cushion. His cell slipped out of his hand and fell with a thump on the floor. He thought about his last glimpse of Mitchell the night before: him lying uneasily on the futon, the bandages ghoulish but his eyes sad and gleaming.

Bradbury inhaled deeply and wished that he could breathe in Mitchell’s scent—cologne perhaps, or even the sharp medicinal smell of the hospital—something that could make his memory of the man sleeping here feel real.

He popped open the button of his jeans with his thumb and worked down his fly. With a push and a grunt his jeans and boxers were around his knees, and his cock throbbed in the cool room. He stroked himself tentatively, gripping the base of his prick and pumping slowly. 

“Mitchell,” he groaned, and there was a terrible freedom in saying his name. “Mitchell,” he’d say, lowering his body on top of the other man, grinding against him and feeling hot breath on his neck. His fantasies were the overheated stuff of dog-eared porno mags hidden in a locked drawer— _“Fuck, you’re huge,” “Harder, fuck me harder…”_

Precome glistened on the thick head of his cock. Close, close, so close. He needed this, just a few minutes of relief after the disappointment of this morning. He could hate himself later. Bradbury thrust into his fist, air hissing through his teeth. His thumb rubbed the spot that made his hips buck, and he envisioned a pink tongue teasing it instead. Had Mitchell ever sucked a cock? His lips would be perfect for it. Christ.

He wanted him. But fuck, why could Bradbury only imagine him on the couch, face wrapped up like Boris Karloff? He thought back to the night on the boat, tried to remember Mitchell’s face hooded by nightfall. It had been so dark, they’d only just met, and then the explosion blew everything to hell. Bradbury couldn’t even remember Mitchell’s face, but he wanted him. Faster, faster; his prick was warm and desperate for it. The voice lingering in his ears was enough to bring him to the edge: “I’m sorry. You’re a good friend.” _Bradbury, I need you._

The orgasm was intense, making Bradbury’s strong thighs shudder with release. When his heart slowed, he looked at the streaks of come darkening his grey t-shirt and cursed. What a mess.

Bradbury pushed himself up on his elbows and tugged up his jeans, not bothering with his fly. Suddenly he heard the muffled ring of his cell. He groped for it under his coffee table, nearly rolling off the futon.

“Shit, shit.” His eyes widened at the sight of Mitchell’s number, and he tossed his phone across the table. The ringing pounded in his ears until it mercifully fell silent. Bradbury rolled onto his stomach, forcing his mind to go blank. Plastic crinkled under his arm, and he dug out a Snickers wrapper. He stared at it for a long moment before crushing it in his large, sweaty fist.

Halloween could go fuck itself.


End file.
